


medicus; a prototype

by dongyeomx



Category: Stray Kids
Genre: M/M, herbs, i don't know what i'm doing this is just for fun, the procedure scene is partly stolen from the witcher so sapkowski please don't sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dongyeomx/pseuds/dongyeomx
Summary: Minho likes plants and helping people.Jisung happens to need help.medieval-ish au (?)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Kudos: 9





	medicus; a prototype

Minho stepped out of his hut into the coldness of midnight air. He closed the door delicately; it has been acting up for the past few days, but he had no motivation to get to work and fix the hinges. He wasn’t exactly busy, either. To be fair, he was rarely busy since settling on the marches. There was always something to do, of course, since whether he would survive or not dependent only on him. Nevertheless, that particular month, as well as the past few months, Minho felt bored.

He walked into the forest through a bush of ferns glistening with dew. The moonlight made it look kind of pretty. And plants were the only things in Minho’s life which he considered to be pretty, at least as of late.

But he was not complaining – he loved the flora of his march, his forest. Well, it wasn’t exactly _his_ , but it wasn’t exactly anyone else’s either, therefore he considered the whole area to be his own little part of the world. Or his exile.

He also depended on it for income, of course.

Among the tall grass and weeds, Minho spotted a patch of yellow, which turned out to be newly-grown dandelions. He kneeled down to cut it with a small knife he always carried around. It was useful. Sometimes for flowers, herbs or plants, which needed to be cut rather than plucked, sometimes for other reasons – one could never know what’s lurking in the shadows. Or who. Nevertheless, he put the flowers inside of his sash and carried on.

The forest wasn’t quiet. Many could think it would be, especially in such a secluded area, but Minho believed he could actually hear more than he was able to when he used to live in the city, among people.

No matter what time of day or night it was, birds were always on the go. Same goes for all sorts of insects. And he would know, since he would sometimes catch them to sell them at the market in the city. He was pretty confident, that if he sat down, closed his eyes and focused, he would be able to hear a singular drop of rain hit a couple of different leaves, one after another, and finally splash on some rock or a fallen branch.

The forest was alive. Stable, yet perpetually moving, expanding. Even at midnight, when he stepped out of his hut to go hunting.

He took off his bow from his back pretty early on, so that no sound could startle his potential prey.

Despite the full moon, Minho decided to rely on his hearing, rather than on his sight. Each step he took from then on was calculated; he has done this routine many times.

After a minute or two of walking, he heard familiar sound of rustling in the bushes. It might have been a badger, a fox, anything of that size, really.

Minho froze. The sounds were coming from a close proximity, maybe three or five metres ahead. He reached to his quiver and picked out one arrow. Making no sound whatsoever, he loaded it, pulled back the bowstring and waited for a movement.

Something was unusual about the situation. The animal stopped moving for a long while. Minho started to lose his patience. He took one step forward. Nothing changed. Two steps. Nothing. The animal began making sounds, as if it was licking something.

Minho got curious. He stepped forward again, and finally saw his prey.

A red fox. His fiery fur was wet from the dew, but he didn’t seem to care. He stood firmly, licking something on the ground.

Minho usually didn’t shoot from this up-close. He stood with his bow ready, arrow on the target, yet he hesitated.

Having made up his mind, he exhaled. Loudly.

As expected, the sound startled the fox, who turned around to face the danger, that is, Minho.

That was the moment that caught him off guard even more – the fox’s nose and mouth was stained with blood. Minho stepped forward automatically, because whatever the fox was licking interested him much more than the animal itself.

He did not expect to see a body, yet there it was – clothes covered in mud, blood all over the face. Overall, an uncanny view.

Minho couldn’t believe his eyes. A corpse, in his forest? How did it get here? He swore it wasn’t there just a few hours before where he came here to pick some herbs.

This time, he did not hesitate. He followed his instinct and having thrown his bow to the side, he kneeled next to the body, hand going straight for the neck.

Despite the horrifying imagery in front of him, he had to check the pulse. The skin was cold, which initially wasn’t a good sign, but after a moment Minho felt something under his fingers. Extremely slow heart rate, but the corpse wasn’t quite a corpse yet.

Slight raising of the chest might have been missed my most people, but Minho knew what details to pay attention to.

He wasted no time and picked up the person – or, the boy, judging from a protruding adam’s apple – and run back, trying his best not to slip on the wet grass. He did not want add any more injuries to a person, who might as well not even make it there alive.

* * *

Minho stopped by the well. It’s not that he didn’t want to get mud all over his house – his priority was to clean the cuts to prevent any potential infections. It might be too late for that, but he was determined to try anything he could to save the boy.

He laid him down on the ground, picked a bucket full of water and flung the whole thing onto his body. The boy shivered and mumbled under his breath, but still wound not open his eyes. The outer layer of mud started dripping off of him, some of it with a hint of deep red.

Minho drew in another bucket and repeated the action. The boy seemed much less dirty, but he was still losing blood. He identified two main sources of bleeding – one from his head, the other from his right arm. Minho picked him up yet again, this time finally heading to the hut.

He pushed the door open with his back; it squeaked loudly, but luckily didn’t quite break yet. Minho put the boy near his provisional fireplace and began talking off his clothes to get the full picture of the damage.

He started by removing his black heeled boots, then pants. They could have been black once, too, but as Minho was undressing him, the colour of the material resembled moss more than coal.

His lower body was mostly fine. When Minho got to his shirt, it was soaked. He reached for a hunting knife laying on a shelf and cut the garment with one, swift motion. Although really bloody, the cut on the arm seemed pretty shallow.

Lastly, Minho removed the boy’s neckerchief and brushed away the hair sticking to his forehead. He reached for a cup, filled it with water and rinsed the boy’s head.

This cut looked worse than the other one. Not that it was much deeper, but its location was a bit more problematic. It was also contaminated with dirt and debris. Minho hoped the flesh wouldn’t get infected, but the chances were slim. The forehead was still bleeding, so Minho washed his hands, grabbed a clean cloth and applied pressure. The boy was unconscious, but breathing.

 _Maybe it’s for the better_ , Minho thought – _once I’d start, he would pass out, anyway._

Once the bleeding slowed down, Minho stood up to prepare the room for what was coming. He hasn’t done this in years, but remembered exactly what to do.

With one motion of the hand he swept all the clutter from the table and picked a clean, linen sheet from the drawer. From another one he grabbed anything, that could be of any help – scissors, alcohol, clean gazes, a few bottles of self-made medicine and mixtures. Finally, a needle and catgut suture. Perhaps not the best kind of thread to use in this case, but he had to make it work.

Minho’s hair began sticking to his forehead, so he grabbed a piece of band and tied is around his head, so that his hair wouldn’t get in the way. Then, he dressed the patient from waist down in some dry clothes. When his instruments were laid out on a tray and the room was lighted with as many candles as he could find around his hut, he began the procedure.

* * *

‘I record the following,’ Minho wrote. ‘The sun is about to rise, I have just finished taking care of my mysterious patient. Considering I found him around midnight, his injuries must have been made between ten to thirteen hours ago. Diagnosis: _vulnera incisivi_ , wounds created by an unknown object, most likely a blade. One of the two, located in the anterior compartment of the upper arm, reached the _dermis_ , the second layer of skin, making it a second stage wound. It was fairly clean, since the shirt prevented it from getting contaminated by the mud, et cetera. I cleaned the area with, for the lack of anything better, an extract of hibiscus, then stitched it. Finally, I put on an ointment of plantain and gauze bandages. As for the second wound-‘

He glanced at the boy, currently lying unconscious on Minho’s bed, with the upper part of his head all wrapped in bandages. He sighed and looked through the window at the rising sun. _What a night,_ he murmured under his breath.

‘Where was I?’ He spoke to himself, as he dipped the quill pen in ink. ‘Oh, right. As for the second cut, it was more troubling. A diagonal laceration located on the left side of the forehead. The wound begins near the hairline and runs through the region towards the ear. The deepest part of the wound reaches the frontal bone. Unfortunately, it was badly contaminated. I removed the dirt and all foreign bodies, which was a long process, but I didn’t want the future scar to ruin his pretty face-‘

This note did not make it on paper, but Minho couldn’t help but notice that aspect. A delicate nose, which luckily has not been broken – nor ever before, judging by its perfect structure; round, flushed cheeks; dark eyelashes, framing his face nicely.

Minho sighed and turned his eyes back to the piece of parchment.

‘I sutured the wound and I am quite happy with the result. I finished the procedure by applying the aforementioned extract as a form of an antiseptic and bandaged the area. Apart from some bruises and abrasions, no other injuries worth noting down.’

Minho dropped the pen on the wooden surface of the desk. He put his arms around his head and leaned back in his chair, looking at the boy in his bed.

That night reminded him of the past. He used to do that a lot. Staying up, stitching what he could, amputating the rest. He’s seen everything there is to see when it comes to human body. Nothing used to faze him that much. Maybe that was the problem.

Minho didn’t expect to use his experience for anything ever again, yet there he was, staring at his first patient in a few years.

The said patient was shivering. Having finished suturing his arm, Minho dressed him in a clean shirt from his own dresser. He also covered him with a blanket to warm him up, but the bodily reaction wasn’t connected with temperature; rather with infection, which was slowly creeping in.

Minho stood up, walked over to him and kneeled by the bed. He had to assess the cardinal signs of inflammation. He peeked under the bandage tied around his head. The first sign _, rubor_ , was there. The whole area around the cut was red, as if the boy fell head first into a fireplace. The second, _calor –_ heat. Third, _tumor,_ in other words swelling. Minho gritted his teeth as he examined the wounded area. Only the final sign was not present yet, but it was going to come sooner or later. It made Minho worried. He had no medicine that could help. Of course, he had his herbal mixtures and whatnot, but Minho was sure he’s going to hear a lot of excruciating screams once that fourth wave hits.

He sighed and bit his lip. He began gently stroking boy’s brown, puffy hair, observing the movements of his chest, going up and down, breathing erratically and unevenly. Then, his eyes moved to the boy’s restless face. He was, indeed, too pretty to be frowning like that. Whatever happened to him, or whatever he did to end up like that, this symmetric, sculpture-like face was not made for frowning. Minho could only hope he would get to see his smile in a more fortunate scenario.

* * *

Fourth stage, _dolor_.

Pain.

The boy has gone from shivering to convulsing. His face was twisted in a grimace. He was sweating, groaning, muttering something inaudible under his breath, sometimes even screaming. Minho tried to talk to him, but he remained irresponsive.

Minho began pacing around his small hut, trying to come up with something. He was running out of ideas. He knew many recipes for effective herbal remedies, but he would not be able to make them on time. The nearest alchemist was still too far away to buy something useful and make it back quick. He wouldn’t dare to leave him alone for so long, anyway.

He opened his drawer, in which he kept some potions and mixes of dried herbs to be sold at the city market. He quickly went through them – he knew nothing here could solve the issue, but maybe something could be of any use while fighting with inflammation and infection.

He had an idea for a compress. Minho put on some water to boil. In the meantime, he grabbed dried flowers of thyme, comfrey and sage. He grinded them together and once the water got hot, he pour some into a bowl and pour the herbs into it. He then took a clean cloth, drenched it in the mixture and applied the warm ointment onto the boy’s forehead.

The brunette fiddled in the bed when Minho took off the bandage.

“Calm down, handsome,” said the doctor. “It’s going to help. Just lay still, try to sleep. You need rest.”

_I, too, need rest._

Minho sad beside him and massaged his temples. His head was pounding from all the stress and lack of sleep. He noticed the boy was clutching the bed cover with his fists. He suddenly felt so bad for him. He wished he could somehow ease his pain.

Minho sighed. Nothing else he could do right now, except to wait. 

* * *

“What the fuck…”

Minho heard a voice, but his eyes were still closed. He must have fallen asleep in his chair again…

He opened them to a hazy figure standing in front of him, pointing something in his direction.

It turned out to be his patient, barely standing, holding Minho's kitchen knife. How much time must have passed for him to be able to even stand? 

Minho glimpsed to the window. It was dark again. He slept through the late afternoon and the evening.

He rubbed his sore temple again, as if it was going to help him focus. “What are you doing?”

The boy staggered a little, still visibly weak, but replied with confidence in his voice. “What did _you_ do to me?? Where even are we? Don’t you move-“

Minho put his hands up, as a sign of surrender. “Calm down, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you. I live here. Please, lay down, you can't walk yet.”

The boy’s hand was shaking. Nevertheless, he did not listen. “I need to go. Right now. Stay right there.”

He began backing away, eyes set on Minho. When he managed to reach the door, Minho knew exactly what’s going to happen, and a moment later it, in fact, did.

The boy took one last step towards his destination, when his legs stopped cooperating. Still clutching the door handle, he collapsed, ripping the poor wooden door off its hinges.

Minho sighed, seemingly louder than ever before, and rushed straight to his feisty patient, and whatever is left from his broken entrance door.


End file.
